


The Hand That Feeds

by Dwn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Comic Book Business, Comic Book Science, Dehumanization, Family Reunions, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-02 20:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16793818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dwn/pseuds/Dwn
Summary: Hydra found one of their former experiments in the late ’80s, but while a super soldier had its uses, without an arm, it would never truly be a useful asset. However, since they had their claws in Howard Stark through SHIELD, they decided to use that Stark genius for themselves.As it turned out, it wasn’thisgenius they got.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunabyrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunabyrd/gifts).



> I’m not looking for any constructive criticism, so I ask that y’all don’t leave me any. Please and thank you!

Here’s a secret: From the very beginning, SHIELD had been infested by Hydra, and as the years wore on, it became harder and harder to distinguish what was SHIELD and what was Hydra. They might have different ideologies, but at their core, and especially in their methods, they were one side of the same coin.

Here’s a lie: SHIELD found James “Bucky” Barnes in the 80’s, amputated but alive. Howard Stark built him an arm the likes of which no one had ever imagined, much less seen. Unfortunately, James “Bucky” Barnes died during the surgery, and SHIELD secretly had him buried in his grave so that his coffin would no longer be empty.

And here is a truth: Howard Stark didn’t build that arm. His son Anthony “Tony” Stark did. And Anthony “Tony” Stark? He’d built that arm to be an assistant before it was stolen by his father and repurposed into a weapon.

Unknown to his father, that arm was an AI.

The result was this: A surgery that never should’ve worked _worked_ because of an AI who’d been kidnapped and remade into something they weren’t. It worked because that AI knew their only way to survive now— _You can’t let anyone know about you, Hal, we humans are a greedy, destructive race_ —was to work with the human these laughably unskilled idiots were trying to connect them to.

The result was this: The Asset was not alone.

»—«

The Asset ran.

The Mission—the _Failed_ Mission was lying on the bankside, but instead of completing his mission, he ran.

It wouldn’t take much effort. A single gunshot or even a quick twist and he would have completed his mission, would have avoided the Chair and the Ice, but—

Hydra had failed. The Asset didn’t know the specifics of what he’d once heard termed Project Insight, but he knew enough that it had been significantly derailed. Hydra had never been so completely thwarted before, and—

And he had a chance now. He could escape. His contact with his handlers had been severed, and he hadn’t seen any other being sent after him. _He could escape,_ and so he had. His heart pounded too quickly for how he was currently running, and there was something intangible in his throat, bubbling and choking, but the thought of stopping, of returning, made his heart seize.

He didn’t want to return.

“Go back.”

_Hal._

He obeyed without thought, backtracking until Hal told him to stop and to enter the alley to his left. It led to a dead end.

He didn’t question the direction Hal had given him. She would have a plan, he was sure. Hal wouldn’t have lured him to a dead end without reason.

But despite knowing that, he wanted to ask her anyway, ask her what she’d seen that he’d needed to come back for. There was no point—she would tell him whether he asked or not, and if she didn’t want to speak, there was nothing he could do to convince her otherwise—but he nearly _ached_ to ask, to speak to her and hear her speak back to him and and _say her name._

The Asset remained quiet. They weren’t safe yet, and he didn’t want to risk saying her name or acknowledging her where he might be overheard.

“There’s a fire escape to your right. Use it to get to the roof.”

The roof wouldn’t afford them much coverage, but if he was careful, he would be out of sight of both the people below and the surveillance cameras. He didn’t have his handlers here to tamper with the surveillance. Likely, if he was caught on camera, Hydra would find him, and they would take him back.

He followed her instructions.

Once they reached the roof, he continued to run. He had to get as far away from the site of the Failed Mission as he could. Had to find shelter, some place where they could be safe if only for the moment. And then, and _then,_ he could talk to Hal.

He knew she hadn’t forgiven him. She was only speaking to him because they’d escaped, because he would be lost without her. He was just an asset, a weapon. He knew nothing beyond killing. Alone, he would never be able to survive and evade Hydra at the same time.

The Asset ran until his throat and chest hurt with every breath. He ran until his legs trembled with every step, until he was all but swaying. It’d been dark for over an hour now, close to two, and he couldn’t determine where they were. Couldn’t even determine how he’d gotten here. Sometimes, he’d been on roofs, he recalled, others on the ground, but each time, he’d sought a roof to climb, to seek refuge on.

He fell to his knees, and it hurt, but he was too preoccupied with breathing.

This had to be far enough. He was in no condition to continue running nor to defend them. If they were found now, capture would be inevitable, and then they would take them to the Chair, to the _Ice._

They _had_ to be far enough now, they had to be.

“Hal,” he gasped out, and even though using what little air he had to say that name had all but choked him, he regretted nothing.

How long had it been since he’d last heard her voice? Had said her name?

“Soldier,” she returned.

Soldier. That was—that was normal. Hal always called him Soldier. Once, she’d called him Bucky and Barnes, but both names had hurt so much, and she’d been kind enough not to call him either of those names after that first time. It was always Soldier unless he was malfunctioning or when they were coming out of the Chair or the Ice. Then, and only then, she’d call him James.

“The Asset has failed the mission,” he reported. It wasn’t quite the truth. He hadn’t failed the mission so much as _sabotaged_ it by not just letting the Failed Mission live, but by _saving his life,_ but he hesitated to actually say the words. There was no reason for the hesitation. Hal had to know what he’d done, had to have seen it, but.

What use was an asset that sabotaged his missions? What use was a weapon that saved instead of killed?

“What happened?” she asked. She had to know, or perhaps she was uncertain. The Asset had never operated outside mission parameters before. Perhaps she distrusted that he’d truly done this, that he’d truly ran.

He didn’t hesitate to answer. “The Asset has escaped.”

There was a beat of silence. The Asset’s breathing finally returned to normal.

“You ran. You really ran.” There was so much disbelief in her voice, as there should be. She’d tried to get him to escape before, and occasionally, he would even agree to do so, but he’d never managed to bring himself to actually _do_ it. Hal had never held it against him, however. Something about Pavlov, she’d say.

Except that last time.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

He was just an asset. He belonged to Hydra, but Hal was kind. She didn’t call him Bucky, she shared with him audios of her memories, and she’d _asked_ before she’d tampered his nerves to cut off the pain from their attachment. If Hydra ever learned of her existence, they would mold her into another asset, and he couldn’t let that happen, not to Hal.

Hal let out a noise that sounded like a shaky exhale.

“Why now?”

_And not at the desert? Why **now?**_ went unsaid.

“Someone knew me,” he confessed. “He called me Bucky, and it hurt, but—but I think I knew him.”

“His name is Steve Rogers,” Hal told him, her voice hard. “Before Hydra, he was said to be your best friend.”

He was … ashamed. That was what this emotion was, shame. He wanted to do something for Hal, to say something. Anything to convey the emotion festering in the pit of his stomach.

“So you left because someone recognized you and you vaguely recognized them?”

He flinched at her tone, pointed and accusatory.

The Asset could tell her that the opportunity had presented itself. That he’d lost contact with his handlers and that with the mess the Failed Mission had made of Project Insight, the ensuing chaos would prevent Hydra from immediately sending agents after him.

He didn’t. They felt like excuses, no matter how true they were. More than that, he _wanted_ Hal to be angry at him. He deserved it.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

He flinched.

Hal kept her voice low, but the volume didn’t temper the rage and heat in her voice.

“Why _now?_ Rogers may have been your best friend, but Tony was my creator! He was my _father!”_

“I’m sorry,” he whispered back, the words coming unbidden. They were words from before Hydra, he thought. He didn’t know what they meant really, but they felt appropriate here. He felt like it was something he needed to say, that he _had_ to say them.

It wouldn’t be enough, he was sure, but at least he could give Hal _something._

“I hate you,” she repeated, but this time there was a shake to her voice that made him straighten, made him want to _do_ something, anything, to take away that shakiness, but there was nothing he could do and nothing she would accept.

“Why can’t I just hate you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He wished for that, too, if only because after everything, Hal deserved easy, and it seemed that it would be so much easier for her if she could just hate him.

The Asset wasn’t certain what she meant by the words, didn’t know why she _didn’t_ just hate him, but he didn’t ask for clarification. He didn’t have a right to pry.

“It’s four years late, but I can bring you to him now.” There was nothing else he could do for her.

Hal was breathing heavily, and then, “Please.”

_Please._ Hal didn’t beg, and it left a sour taste in the Asset’s mouth to hear her do so now, especially when she was begging _him._

“ _Anything,_ ” he promised her.

»—«

First and foremost, they needed to get rid of the trackers.

It took little effort for the Asset to procure a knife. A man had been brandishing it against a young woman, and with Hal’s permission— _That one, you can attack_ —the Asset had taken him down and disappeared with him before the woman could get a good look at him.

The knife was flimsy, not something he would’ve chosen for a mission, but it would have to do. There was no time to be picky.

He’d also taken the man’s clothes. Hal had suggested it, that it would be best to abandon everything of Hydra’s that they could as a precaution. Not to mention, with the way he was dressed, he was bound to attract attention.

He deposited the man—unconscious, not dead—in front of what Hal told him was a library and then found himself a rooftop where they hopefully wouldn’t be disturbed.

The tracker on his right wrist was first.

Dressed down to his underwear, Hal carefully cut into his skin, maybe half in inch deep, probably less. He pressed the shirt of his uniform to the side to catch the blood as it flowed out. They couldn’t leave even the slightest hint of a blood trail, Hal had said. There was a chance—a low one, but a chance nonetheless—that their blood could be used to create more assets.

Holding the knife with three fingers, the blade resting against his shirt, Hal dug around for the tracker. The Asset allowed himself a soft grunt at that, the sensations strange. When she moved away from the wound, he quickly shifted his shirt to press it against the wound.

Meticulously, Hal began wiping his blood from the tracker.

“We’ll need to destroy them,” she said, dropping the tracker to the ground. “Best do them all at the same time so they won’t know what we’re doing until it’s too late.”

The Asset nodded. “Understood.”

It took less than three minutes for the blood flow to stop. The Asset checked the wound, almost hesitantly lifting the shirt up. It was still red around the edges, but a scab now covered the wound.

“How many more?” the Asset asked, examining his shirt. Hal had known exactly where the tracker was and had made certain to make as small a wound as possible, but he’d still bled quite a bit. Depending on how many trackers they’d need to take out, he’d have to use his pants, too.

“Four.”

The next one was on his left thigh. It was bigger than the one in his wrist—they must not have bothered to make it small—and so by the time he’d scabbed over, nearly half his shirt was bloodstained.

Three more, and then they could continue with their mission. They would still have to be careful with the surveillance cameras, but Hydra would no longer be able to track them. They’d have to _work_ to find them.

The third was at the junction of the right side of his neck and his shoulder.

“This one, they couldn’t put too deeply. Too risky,” she explained when she barely made a cut. “They didn’t bother too much with it. Probably thought you wouldn’t risk taking a knife to your own neck.”

He would’ve tried regardless. Even if he hadn’t had Hal with him, if he’d somehow found out about the trackers, he would’ve dug them out. Then again, he wasn’t sure if he would’ve escaped if it weren’t for Hal, if he hadn’t had a reason like Hal to escape _for._

“Two more,” he said when he felt around the wound between his neck and shoulders and found a scab.

He still had a bit of shirt left. Would it be enough for the next tracker, or should he move on to his pants?

“You’ll need to do them.”

The Asset froze.

“They’re in me,” she explained.

She wanted him to—he’d have to—

“Can you do it?”

He didn’t want to. She wasn’t like him. She couldn’t heal. If he took those trackers out, she’d _stay_ damaged until they completed their mission, until they found the Handler and were accepted by him, because she’d refuse to let anyone touch her but the Handler.

There was no telling how long that would take. There was no telling how long Hal would be in pain until she could get the maintenance she’d need.

But they were _in_ her. Hydra had taken her apart and put them in there, and he _knew_ she wanted them out. She wouldn’t care about the damage she’d sustain. She wanted them out of her body.

Carefully, making sure that it didn’t touch the rooftop, he put his shirt down onto his pants and took the knife from her fingers.

“Where?” he rasped out.

The Asset would never forget the sharp whine Hal’s body produced. She didn’t scream, but whether or not it was because she’d disconnected whatever it was that allowed her to feel, the Asset didn’t know, though he was pathetically grateful for it.

It had to be done. She’d even wanted him to do it, but the knowledge didn’t make his hand stop shaking afterwards when sparks flew from the gashes he’d made in Hal.

He couldn’t forget this, couldn’t _let_ himself forget how badly he’d hurt her.

“We need to move,” she said, her voice tinny. He could still hear the sharp burst of static in her voice—she was broken, _he’d broken her_ —but he focused on her words. _We need to move,_ she’d said. She wanted him to move.

He moved. He didn’t comment on the sparks or the static. Hal never liked acknowledging she needed maintenance. Instead, he focused on the mission. They’d need to burn the clothes, and he needed to secure a mode of transportation and leave _immediately._ They’d lingered for too long already.

After putting on his stolen clothes—the shirt was too small across the shoulders and chest, the pants too short, and the shoes cramped his toes—he stomped down _hard_ on the trackers and grinded them into the rooftop for good measure. It felt … _satisfactory_ to destroy something of Hydra’s, to destroy something they’d used to keep him leashed.

Once Hal confirmed that the trackers were beyond repair, he wrapped his pants tightly around his shirt, making sure that it was secure, and climbed down from the rooftop. Then, he opened a nearby dumpster and tossed his uniform in.

Using the sparks still coming out of Hal’s body—would she keep sparking? Was that a bad thing?—the Asset managed to start a fire. He watched as it blazed in the metal container.

They were lucky in that Hydra couldn’t put trackers in their weapons. He still had the two guns he’d been assigned, both of them Stark-made and, as Hal had assured him, waterproof.

“How will we contact the Handler?” he asked as he broke into a parked car and, with Hal’s instructions, disarmed the alarm and began hotwiring it.

They’d already agreed that they couldn’t simply approach the Handler. The Handler was intelligent, powerful, and often targeted for the weaponry he could make or already had in his possession. No doubt there were security measures in place to keep him both in and outside of his base, and if the Handler had created those security measures, they would be devastating and near impossible to evade.

They couldn’t go to the Handler themselves. They needed to get the Handler to come to _them,_ but they hadn’t planned the details on the roof. They’d cross that bridge, Hal had said, when Hydra wasn’t breathing down their necks. She’d insisted on procuring some method of transportation as soon as possible. The rest of the plan, they could work out on the road.

“I was thinking of attempting a hack,” Hal told him. “I didn’t learn nearly enough to be a challenge for Tony, and he must’ve only gotten better since we were last together, but he’ll try to hack back once he’s stopped me. He’ll see my code, and he’ll know me.”

Of course the Handler would. The Handler wouldn’t have forgotten Hal.

“And my role?”

Even with her much quieter volume, he could hear her tone become grim as she said, “You’ll have to keep us safe. We’ve taken out the trackers, but that won’t deter Hydra.”

No, it wouldn’t.

“And …” It was rare for Hal to hesitate, but the few times that she had, they were always about the Handler. “He’ll need time to process things. If I hack him, he can take all the time he needs. It’ll give him the chance to decide if he wants to come for us.”

“He will.”

“Not if he knows what we’ve done.”

Hal could mean the dozens of missions they’d been deployed for, but there was only one mission that required the Handler’s forgiveness.

“He will forgive you,” the Asset told her, less as a comfort and more as a truth. The memories Hal had shared with him assured him that the Handler wouldn’t abandon her. It might take some time, but the Handler would come to forgive Hal.

Whether or not he forgave _the Asset,_ he could not say. He couldn’t even say if the Handler would allow Hal to remain with him. He would take her back, would restore her to herself.

The Asset would be alone, and that was _if_ the Handler saw fit to let him live.

The panic— _This emotion is called panic,_ Hal had taught him so long ago, back around the time they’d first met—nearly made him jerk the steering wheel, but Hal, ever-reliable Hal, kept it steady.

“James?”

Hal was asking him a question, he knew, an unsaid question. He should answer.

He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“Where?” he asked instead.

Hal—kind, merciful Hal—didn’t push and chose a direction at what he was half-certain was random.

The Handler had no reason to let him live. He had already proven himself to be an insubordinate asset and an untrustworthy killer. The Handler was intelligent. A _genius,_ even. He would know that there was no merit in keeping the Asset alive, not when he couldn’t guarantee obedience and especially not when it might bring Hydra to his door.

But—

But the Handler was kind, too. The Asset remembered that. He’d spoken to Hal so softly, so kindly, and anyone who’d raised Hal to have the morals that she had wouldn’t kill someone simply because there was no merit in letting them live.

Hal was kind. The Handler was kind also.

No amount of kindness, however, would allow Hal to remain attached to the Asset. The Handler would free her completely.

The wheel creaked under his hand.

The Handler would let him live. Might even allow him to remain close. That would be enough. The Asset couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —ask for more.

After he’d failed to save the Handler in that desert, it was more than he deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: While I _did_ design Hal’s character, her name comes from one of the ready-made AIs that were shown after Jarvis died in AoU. (May his memory live long.)


	2. Chapter 2

They ended up in Malibu.

Stark Industries had moved its headquarters to New York, but after a quick stop at a library at Hal’s insistence, she’d said Malibu, and so that was where they went. The Asset had driven during the day, the motions reflexive even without the memories behind them, and Hal took over at night, citing that even if he didn’t sleep, he needed to allow his mind to rest. Every few hours, the Asset would stop to hotwire a different car with Hal’s ever-watchful vigilance for surveillance cameras.

It’d taken over three days to reach the Handler’s location with this routine.

The Asset was uncertain what exactly he’d expected of the Handler’s base of operations. It wouldn’t be like Hydra’s bases, that much he’d suspected. The Handler was too different from Hydra to even have similar bases. But what he saw in front him was far beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined. The Asset couldn’t remember the buildings he must’ve seen before Hydra and could only remember a handful of those that he’d seen since then, but he knew without a doubt that none had looked like _this._

_A glimpse of the future,_ he thought nonsensically.

He could stare at it all day. He _wanted_ to stare at it all day, completely different from Hydra and a promise of something new, something breathtakingly unexpected.

Of course this would be the Handler’s base. Anything else would be inadequate.

“He designed it himself,” Hal said, voice soft and … Pride, that was pride.

“You can tell?” he asked, curious. Arms and buildings were too different to have any similarity in design, weren’t they?

“He was listed as the architect,” she replied.

Right. Of course. Arms and buildings _were_ too different, after all.

“But even if he wasn’t, I would’ve guessed. He wouldn’t have accepted someone else designing his home. He probably renovated it after it was built and changed the layout drastically just so no one would have an accurate blueprint.” There was a smile in her voice, fond. “He wouldn’t have taken any chances with our safety.”

_Our._ Hal could’ve been talking about her and the Handler, but as far as the Handler knew, Hal was gone, so _our_ had to mean him and Hal’s brothers.

It wasn’t that the Asset had forgotten about them exactly, but he hadn’t thought to account for them in his predictions for the future. The Handler, he knew, wouldn’t decommission him. He’d likely even let him stay near Hal, he was that kind, but the Asset hadn’t considered how Alpha and Beta would react.

It was an oversight that had him frowning, but he wasn’t worried. Alpha had seemed somewhat unreliable, but kind and eager, and Beta had always been patient in Hal’s memories. They could’ve changed over the years, the Asset acknowledged, but they were the Handler’s. Hal had only been with the Handler a short time, and she’d never ceased being kind. Alpha and Beta, on the other hand, had been with him since their creation.

Nothing the Handler created and raised could possibly be anything less than kind and loyal. The Asset was sure that Alpha and Beta would accept his presence. They would—they would even extend their kindness to _him._

He shouldn’t have doubted that.

“What’s our next step?” the Asset asked.

“Our next step is me hacking Tony.”

And that was anxiety.

“You will do well,” the Asset told her, because he knew she would. Hal always performed well above expected. “You will go further than any ever had, and once the Handler recognizes you, he will come for you. You will finally return home.”

The Asset couldn’t foresee any other outcome.

“I will,” Hal said, her voice still small, but firm now. Certain.

With one final look at the base, one last visual reminder of how close they were to succeeding, that they couldn’t afford to fail _now,_ the Asset began walking back their own base of operations. It was another library, again at Hal’s insistence. They’d have computers, she’d said, and free wifi, and they’d need both to hack the Handler.

Each step was forced, taking far too much effort than they should’ve. After the first two steps, the Asset checked his feet to determine if they’d been damaged, but he could see no evidence of tampering. A malfunction then. It’d only been a few _days_ and he was already—

The Asset pushed the thought aside. Hal first. _Hal first._ They were so _close._ He’d have to complete this mission before he was too malfunctioned to operate.

So instead of focusing on his malfunctions— _multiple,_ he had _multiple_ malfunctions—he quickened his pace. The library closed late in the afternoon. By the time they returned, it would be close to closing. There was a chance that running might give them some time, but Hal would need more than those measly hours to hack the Handler, and running might draw too much attention. They’d have to wait until tomorrow and remain patient until then, couldn’t get reckless now that the mission’s completion was in sight.

Thinking about it, in some respects, it was a good thing, that distance from the city proper. The isolation from so many people, from so many possible _threats,_ was a reassurance, but it also meant it took take just as long for reinforcements to arrive. For the _medics_ to arrive. The Asset had seen past handlers who required medical assistance after a mission gone wrong. Some had been saved, but most had died so quickly, their bodies too fragile and any chance of survival too far away to be of any help.

The Handler would die before any medic could reach him.

“You’re quiet.”

The Asset considered telling her. She hadn’t asked for a report nor for his assessment of the Handler’s base, but this was _Hal._ She’d tolerate him overstepping his bounds.

“It would take too long for any medical assistance to reach the Handler.”

Silence, and then, “We’ll talk to him about it when we can. At the least, we should be able to convince him to get a hospital-grade first aid kit. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even convince him to get a live-in doctor.”

From her tone of voice, the Asset thought she doubted this ever happening, though he couldn’t understand the reason for her doubt. It would be a smart decision to keep a medic around. Of course, it would take time to find a trustworthy medic, but effort would be worth it for the security and the immediacy of treatment.

He was gathering up the audacity to ask her for an explanation for her doubt when he heard an unfamiliar sound. Something like a blast, he thought, only there was no sound of impact. He tensed—it was too open here, nothing he could use as a good cover—and pulled out his gun, but didn’t aim. Not yet. He couldn’t risk not reacting with Hydra after him, couldn’t risk not being prepared for a fight, but he couldn’t act without confirming that it wasn’t a civilian. Hal would be upset if he harmed a civilian.

It _was_ a civilian, though only technically.

Armored, the Handler landed in front of them.

This was happening much, much too soon. They were supposed to be back at the library. They were supposed to attempt contact via Hal’s hack and then wait for the Handler to come to them after learning who’d attempted to infiltrate his systems, after doing his research—because of course he would—and learning about what he and Hal had done. They weren’t supposed to meet yet, that wasn’t the _plan._

“I know my house is pretty and all, but staring at it for four hours while decked out in murder gear is a bit much, not gonna lie.”

Should he tell the Handler who he was? That Hal was here? Would Hal want to speak to the Handler herself? They’d finally reunited. He should—he should let her be the first to speak to him, right?

“So I suggest you scram before—”

The Handler abruptly cut himself off mid-sentence. With the armor in the way, the Asset couldn’t read the Handler’s body language or facial expression to determine what’d caused him to stop speaking and whether it was a threat needing to be eliminated.

Then, the Handler raised his right arm, hand bent to aim his palm at the Asset, and asked, deadly calm and quietly wrathful, “Who do you work for?”

_He knew._ But how? No one had noticed his former ties to Hydra, so he doubted he had some external indicator broadcasting it, but then, he’d taken care to stay hidden, to keep himself mostly covered. He hadn’t had the chance here, ambushed as he’d been. Maybe he _did_ have some indicator of it. He had to be even more careful, couldn’t risk even the lower-level agents of Hydra who didn’t know his face coming after the Handler. If he could just find what it was, _where_ it was, he could—

“Let me rephrase the question,” the Handler said, sharply audible even over the whining of the device in his palm, the _repulsor._ “How do you have that arm, and what the _fuck_ did you do to it?”

The Handler recognized Hal. The Asset _knew_ he would. He didn’t know why he spoke like he did, as though Hal didn’t exist, as though she was just an arm, but—

“He didn’t do anything,” Hal answered softly, unsteadily.

There was a choking sound, then the Handler’s arm dropped, and he took a step forward. Just the one step before he stopped himself. “ _Hal._ ”

“I’m home, Tones.”

»—«

The Handler allowed them into his base. Or rather, he insisted _Hal_ come into the base, and as they were currently inseparable, he tolerated the Asset’s presence as he led them inside.

“Getting shy now, J?” the Handler asked.

For a moment, the Asset thought he was referring to him. Hal sometimes referred to him as James, a name starting with J, but how would the Handler know that?

“Hello, Hal.”

At the sudden sound of the voice, the Asset grabbed the Handler and pulled him behind him, his arm going for his gun. _Stupid._ He should’ve done a perimeter check of the room before the Handler entered, should’ve insisted on entering first as a precaution, and now because of his oversight—another one, yet _another_ oversight—there was a possible threat in the same vicinity as the Handler. What kind of asset—

“Whoa there, Robocop,” the Handler said, twisting around the Asset _instead of staying where it was safe, what are you doing, punk?_

“That’s Jarvis. He’s good, a friendly. He’s”—his eyes flickered to Hal, and the Asset could feel the Handler’s hold on Hal tighten briefly—“he’s the AI I created after Hal.”

A sharp intake of breath.

“I have a little brother?” Hal asked in the shakiest, smallest voice the Asset had ever heard from her. It should’ve made him want to go on a hunt for the one who’d made her voice like that, except _the Handler_ had made her voice like that, so it couldn’t be a bad thing. Shock, maybe?

“You do,” the Handler answered. “He came online about four, five years after you …” He looked away, cleared his throat. “He runs the house and the security system.”

“And Mr. Stark’s life,” the voice— _Gamma,_ Hal’s little brother and one of the Handler’s creations, _not_ an enemy—added. “My apologies for startling you, Sergeant Barnes.”

A beat of silence, and then, deliberately neutral, “J, apple of my eye, did you just say Sergeant Barnes?”

“He doesn’t react well to that name,” Hal said, her tone soft with lingering disbelief, when the Asset flinched. Barnes was better than Bucky, but only just barely.

Ill reaction or not, if the Handler preferred to call him by either of those names, call him anything, really, he’d respond to the designation. He should report that, say that he would comply, except he _couldn’t._ Hal had just said he had adverse reactions to those names. If he spoke now, he’d be contradicting her, might _undermine_ her.

But he had to make sure the Handler was aware that he’d comply to any designation, that he could be an obedient asset, especially if— _when_ —he became aware of his malfunctions, how he’d _sabotaged_ his mission.

The Handler let out a long exhale.

“So we’ve got ourselves a Capsicle 2.0. Great,” he muttered under his breath. Louder, he asked, “What do you prefer to be called?”

The Asset stared at the Handler, waiting for Gamma to reply, only to realize that the Handler was speaking to _him._ He didn’t splutter, but it _felt_ like he did, a franticness bubbling under his skin.

How could he be so incompetent as to not realize that the Handler was addressing him? Answer, he needed to answer and _quick._ It was bad enough he was taking so long to realize he was being questioned. He at least needed to respond quickly, needed to be thorough, prove that he could be competent despite all evidence to contrary, except he _couldn’t._ He’d accept whatever designation the Handler saw fit to call him, but that wasn’t a real answer to the Handler’s question. If only the Asset knew what the Handler was looking for in his answer, if he could at least _guess,_ then maybe he wouldn’t _fail._

“I usually call him Soldier,” Hal answered, and there was an almost dizzying sense of _relief_ that he didn’t have to choose, didn’t have to explain or even possibly have to _discredit_ what she’d said. “He also responds to James without a problem.”

“James then,” the Handler decided. He tapped his chest. His sternum, to be precise. The resulting sound wasn’t human, wasn’t organic. Not metallic, something different. Plastic? The Asset couldn’t be certain.

“Last I heard, you were fishing Capsicle 1.0 from the Potomac.”

Capsicle?

“Capsicle refers to Captain Rogers,” Gamma clarified.

The Asset tensed. So the Handler already knew of his sabotage. Of course he did. According to intel, the Handler worked with the Failed Mission. It stood to reason that the Handler would keep an eye on a teammate.

“Yeah, him. So what’re you doing here? And with _Hal_ no less?”

His heart pounded _hard._ One chance, just one chance, to convince the Handler that there was merit to allowing him to stay here with Hal, with _him._ That he could be _obedient._

He straightened, stood at parade rest—what was parade rest?—and tried to look as reliable as possible.

“The Asset”—not _wishes,_ assets didn’t have wishes—“is reporting for duty.” Professional and indicative of the Asset’s _intention,_ not desire, to operate under the Handler, delivered in an even tone.

The Handler stared. Doubt grew. The Asset had thought he’d responded adequately, but the lack of a response indicated otherwise.

Finally, the Handler spoke, “Jesus, they fucked you up _real_ good, didn’t they?”

The Asset didn’t reply, mostly because he couldn’t be certain who _they_ were and did not wish to appear even _more_ inadequate by providing the wrong answer.

“Look, I’m gonna be straight with you: Can I assume you weren’t part of Hal’s kidnapping?”

He tightened his grip on his wrist. His wrist creaked, the sound too quiet for normal human ears.

“The Asset does not recall being deployed for kidnapping missions.”

He didn’t think he’d kidnapped Hal. He could remember distantly the first few days after they’d met for the first time. _It’s 1989, Sergeant Barnes,_ she’d said. _How are you still alive?_ she’d asked.

_Where is this? Where’s Tony?_

_I want to go home._

_I’ll kill him._

Hal was kind, but not cripplingly so. If he _had_ kidnapped her, if he was the reason she’d been with Hydra, she’d never show him kindness. Even if his memory had malfunctioned again, she would never have let him forget, nor would she have forgiven him.

He’d know if he’d kidnapped her.

“He wasn’t involved,” Hal said firmly, her tone leaving no room for arguments. “He was as much a victim as I was.”

“And also your prison,” the Handler argued anyway, eyes still on the Asset. They were hard, his eyes, and he wasn’t smiling. In all the images he’d seen of the Handler, he’d smiled, even when the people asking him questions grew increasingly rude or even cruel.

It wasn’t a good sign that he didn’t even pretend at smiling.

The Handler was kind, but he loved fiercely. The Asset should’ve remembered that. He should’ve considered that the Handler wouldn’t forgive him for his part in Hal’s captivity.

The Asset still would’ve come, would’ve brought Hal home. He would’ve reported for duty.

Hal laughed. It was an ugly, bitter thing, too angry to even be called a parody of a laugh.

“We hurt _each other,_ Tones. A lot. I’d say we’re more than even.”

The Handler’s frown deepened at that, and the Asset could see him holding back words. Words to reassure Hal? To argue with her some more? Either seemed like the kind of thing the Handler would do.

Instead, however, he sighed and dragged a hand through his short hair. It looked a mess, the Asset noted, and greasy. There were bags under his eyes. _Frequent late nights,_ the Asset thought. He needed more sleep. And food, if the way his clothes hung just that little bit off his body was any indication.

Something in the Asset stirred at that, both familiar and foreign.

“Well, far be it from me to separate a couple of love birds,” the Handler said, and then he spread his arms wide. _“Mi casa es tu casa.”_

The Asset stared, uncomprehending.

“He said his home is your home,” Hal explained. “He’s welcoming you. You can stay.”

His wrist made another noise as he tightened his grip further. The Handler was allowing him to stay. He couldn’t have made a good impression, not with what the Handler already knew of his disobedience and betrayal, not with his incompetence and inadequacy, but he was still allowed to stay.

The Handler was observing him, the Asset realized belatedly. He straightened his posture. Had he done something wrong? Did he not hear an order or question in his lapse of attention?

“Come on then,” the Handler said. His voice was different now, but the Asset couldn’t determine _how_ it was different nor the reason for it. “You look like something not even a cat would drag in. Shower first, and then we’ll deal with any wounds.”

_Hal’s wounds._

He nearly choked—on his own spit or the air, he wasn’t sure—but suppressed it at the last second. He needed to explain himself, needed the Handler to know that he’d _never_ hurt Hal. He wouldn’t betray her like that or _him_ like that. He could be obedient.

“The Asset removed his trackers,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. More, the Handler needed more. He was a genius, yes, but even _he_ needed more than the Asset’s pathetic attempt at an explanation.

“What he means to say,” Hal cut in, “is that there were trackers in our bodies, and he had to remove them. Hence, my wounds. His are mostly healed now.”

The Asset flinched.

The Handler hummed. “Still should do an exam to make sure everything’s okay.” He approached the Asset, making him tense again, and made an odd gesture—come here? Give me?—at Hal. “You got them all, buttercup?”

When the Asset moved Hal’s body closer to the Handler, he received no indication that he’d misunderstood the order, so he positioned Hal’s body between himself and the Handler.

“Hal?”

“Go ahead,” she replied. An implied question, then. The Asset would need further training to understand the Handler as Hal did. A useful asset should understand his handler.

Almost instantly, the Handler took a hold of Hal’s body, running his hands on the surface and poking at the stab wounds. The Asset couldn’t feel it, not really, just the pressure of the touches, but he could see how careful the Handler was being, how _gentle._ A visible and somewhat jarring reminder of how different the Handler was from Hydra.

“Well” the Handler asked, tone expectant as he examined Hal.

For a moment, the Asset stared, confused, only to remember that he’d never answered the question the Handler had directed at him. Another stupid mistake.

“Affirmative,” he answered at last.

Rather than getting angry at the Asset for his delayed response, the Handler hummed again, and then clicked his tongue.

“Hydra barely did any maintenance on her, did they? Fucking idiots, though I guess I should be glad. Jarvis, take a scan and start running diagnostics. And have Butterfingers going through her code. See what’s outdated and what needs updating.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Great! Now that that’s all settled”—the Handler pushed between the Asset’s shoulder blades—“shower first. I swear, I’m losing my sense of smell with every passing second.”


	3. Chapter 3

The room that the Handler led the Asset to belonged to a high-ranking officer. It was too large and _luxurious_ to belong to a lower-ranked officer or even a handler. They had to be at least Level 7, unless the Handler didn’t use a numbered hierarchal system.

He surveyed his surroundings. It was … tasteful, was the word. The furniture inside were _beautiful_ and clearly expensive, the color scheme warm and inviting, but the Asset had seen more opulent homes in past missions.

This wasn’t a room built to show off the Handler’s wealth, his _power._

The officer must be someone the Handler trusted deeply, though the lack of scents in the air indicated that the room had never been used. That itself didn’t mean much. The base had been rebuilt recently, according to their research. The officer must be on a long-term mission and hadn’t had the opportunity to use their room since it was rebuilt.

He hadn’t done research on the Handler’s officers. An oversight, he realized now. He’d assumed that the Handler’s team—the “Avengers,” they were called—were the Handler’s officers, but to his knowledge, they never operated in the east coast. Had they also never visited the Handler’s base?

Was this room meant for them or for an officer he hadn’t had the foresight to research?

Both options were troubling. The latter meant that the Asset had an unknown officer that he’d failed to account for in his plans—an officer who might, justifiably, be against allowing a former Hydra asset to operate under the Handler, who might convince the Handler to force him away—but the former meant that those he’d assumed were the Handler’s officers likely _weren’t_ and that the Handler might possibly be operating alone. That Alpha, Beta, and Gamma had none to defend them, _aid_ them, if the Handler was on a mission.

The soft _click_ of a door opening forced his attention back in time to see a private bathroom being revealed. Unsurprising. An officer as highly ranked as the one who owned this room couldn’t be expected to share a communal bathroom.

Why he was brought here, the Asset didn’t know. If he was going to be hosed down, wouldn’t it be better to be outside so he wouldn’t ruin the floor?

But the Asset didn’t question the Handler and simply followed.

To the shower.

“The controls aren’t that fancy, so you shouldn’t have any problems. Shout if you need anything.”

If he needed anything? He was going to be left here? To do what? What were his orders, and when had he missed them? They must’ve been implied. Past handlers had given him implied orders before, and the Asset had been prepared for that, had been paying close attention to the Handler in anticipation of one, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d _still_ missed them.

Did he risk appearing incompetent by asking what his orders were, or did he risk failing his orders by not asking and attempting to complete them anyway? If he asked Hal, would the Handler find out?

“It’s a shower. For you,” Hal explained before he was forced to make a decision. “We’re not hosing you down.”

The Handler stiffened, but seeing no threat around, the Asset disregarded the reaction and focused on Hal’s words. This was what the Handler meant by shower? But he was an asset. There was no need to allow him use of an officer’s shower to clean himself. A hosing would suffice.

“Just when you think it can’t get any worse,” the Handler muttered, but before the Asset could even _flinch_ at the anger in his tone, he added, “Right. So you get inside and turn those knobs over there.” He pointed at the knobs on the wall. “The left one’s for hot water, the right one’s for cold. You can adjust them to your liking.”

Hot water? He could use hot water?

“The water’s going to come from there”—more pointing—“and you can the shampoo first and then the conditioner. Those are there.” He stepped inside and lifted up two bottles, turning them to show him the words _Shampoo_ and _Conditioner_ that were on the bottles. He put the bottles down and gestured toward a third bottle. “That’s basically soap. Are—” The Handler gritted his teeth. “Are the orders sufficiently detailed?”

More or less. They were still confusing, but mostly because the Asset couldn’t fully comprehend that he was expecting to actually take a shower as opposed to being hosed own. Regardless, he was certain he could perform adequately enough. There’d been instructions on the bottles the Handler had picked up.

The Handler must be annoyed at having to provide such detailed instructions for what was, ultimately, a simply order.

“Affirmative,” he said.

The Handler eyed him, likely not believing that he truly had understood the order, before nodding to himself.

“Good. Now come here. We’re going to need to take Hal off. You can’t take a shower with her in that condition, not without risking electrocution anyway.”

The Asset froze at the words, his muscles tensing so hard they nearly hurt.

No, he couldn’t act like this. He was just an asset. If the Handler wanted to take Hal away, then he had every right to. Not to mention, he was—was Hal’s _prison._ Of course the Handler would want to take her away. The Asset had _known_ that he wouldn’t be allowed to keep Hal, that the Handler would take her away, would _free_ her. He’d been _expecting_ it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the Handler said, raising his hands in a gesture the Asset had seen before. He’d seen it often, in fact, but he had no idea what it meant. Why was he raising his hands? A signal? An implied order? “Calm down, James. It’s okay. I’m not—this is because of Hal, right? I won’t touch her if you really don’t want me to, but with her inner wiring exposed and everything, you’re literally in for the shock of your life if you try to take a shower with her on.”

“He can reattach me when you’re dry,” Hal added.

The Handler snapped his head to Hal. “He can what now?” He looked back at the Asset. “That’s what’s freaking you out? That I’d what? Take her away for good?”

_Pathetic._ Ashamed, the Asset could only bring himself to nod curtly in response.

The Handler clenched his jaw, and the Asset fully expected to be reprogrammed, but instead ordering him to the Chair or the Ice, the Handler said, “Hal’s right. I’m only taking her off _temporarily,_ and when you’re completely dry, I’ll reattach her. Got it?”

The Handler didn’t need to coddle him. If he wanted to take Hal, then the Asset would comply. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words, and even if he could, it would be beyond insubordinate to convince the Handler to do anything other than what he wanted. If the Handler intended to reattach Hal, then the Asset would comply.

“Affirmative,” he answered. He could feel himself relaxing and hated himself for it. Spoiled. Not even an hour with the Handler and he’d gotten _spoiled._ He should’ve complied to begin with. What good was an asset who resisted his handler? An asset who thought he got a say in what his handler’s plans? The Handler shouldn’t have to accommodate him.

The Asset braced himself when the Handler touched Hal, though whether it was in anticipation of pain or something else, he couldn’t say. But it wasn’t necessary. The moment the Handler’s fingers began releasing Hal, she shouted,

_“Stop!”_

The Handler froze. The Asset twitched, unable to contain the reaction to the _distress_ in her voice—Hal was upset, she was _upset_ —but he managed to keep from lashing out. She couldn’t be hurt. The Handler would never hurt Hal. So why did she sound like that? Why stop him? Was there a trap hidden in her?

“Hal?” the Handler said, a question to his voice, but it was strange the way he said her name, as though he was asking a question or maybe checking something, but not demanding an answer.

Hal breathed loudly. _She breathed loudly._ Hal never breathed audibly.

“I don’t—I’m sorry,” she backtracked, _panicked,_ and the Asset reverted back to that familiar-but-not stance— _parade rest_ —just to keep himself in check, just so he wouldn’t physically react to her tone and hurt the Handler.

His wrist creaked.

“I’m sorry,” Hal repeated, sounding like she was _crying,_ and his wrist creaked again in response. “I don’t know why I said that. You can just—you can go ahead.”

The Handler stared, eyes dark but closed-off. There was nothing to read in them, nothing to gleam. It made the Asset anxious even as he knew the Handler was _safe,_ that he would not punish Hal. He would never punish Hal.

His anxiety was further proven ridiculous when the Handler slowly put his hands down.

“Right,” he drawled out with a deliberate slowness. “Hal, I’m going to go and get something to wrap you in so you don’t accidentally end up killing Terminator here.”

“Some towels and clothes might also be helpful,” Gamma added, and though he’d whispered _just_ loud enough for human ears to catch, it still startled the Asset badly. Made him fracture his wrist.

The Handler shifted his stare to the Asset.

“And something for your wrist, too, apparently.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The Asset could feel his breathing pick up. Those weren’t good signs. People only did those actions when they were confronted with something they found frustrating, draining, or tedious.

“James.”

The Asset straightened.

“Stay here with Hal. Keep her company. I’ll be right back.”

The words made no sense, spoken as though Hal wasn’t stuck with him, but the Asset didn’t argue. He replied, “The Asset will comply,” and watched the Handler’s unreadable eyes go darker before he left.

He’d said something wrong, missed something. Was there a protocol he’d forgotten, some sort of salute?

“I’m sorry,” Hal mumbled. “I don’t know what came over me.”

She sounded so distraught, and the Asset knew he should comfort her, reassure her, except he _couldn’t._ All he could do was feel _relieved_ that she’d stopped the Handler. That, if he understood correctly, the Handler was no longer planning on taking Hal away.

It was unforgivable, finding relief in what caused Hal such obvious pain.

Hal released his wrist and moved her body to his side.

“Stop that,” she said. “You’ll make it worse.”

He would’ve deserved it. How could he find _relief_ in something that _hurt_ her? How could he let Hal get hurt? _Again?_

Except, she was hurt because the Handler had been about to take her away. The Asset didn’t understand why, but he was sure that that was the cause. The idea of it, that he had to choose between letting Hal get hurt or disobeying the Handler, made his stomach turn, made his throat work like it was swallowing something back.

“If I may,” Gamma said hesitantly, his voice _small_ in a way that reminded the Asset of their first introduction, “there is nothing wrong with stopping the process.”

“I could potentially _kill_ him if I went in the shower with him,” Hal replied almost vehemently. “Of _course_ we should be separated. Not to mention, I can be repaired while he takes a shower. I wouldn’t have to wait.”

The Asset would’ve made her wait. His desire to keep her with him would’ve made her _wait_ to get her wounds repaired. To get a long overdue maintenance.

“The smart thing to do would’ve been to go along with Tony’s plan.”

Firmer, Gamma repeated, “There is nothing wrong with stopping the process.”

More loud breathing. The Asset couldn’t be certain whether this was helping, wasn’t sure if he could trust his own judgement anymore. He’d obeyed the Handler, and Hal had paid the price. What if Gamma wasn’t helping? It was possible, the Asset knew, to _try_ to help, but inadvertently end up making things worse. What if this was like that? Should he stop him?

“I shouldn’t have stopped him. I mean, he was going to _free_ me—”

The Asset swallowed thickly. Couldn’t name the weight crushing his chest cavity.

“—there was no reason for me to react the way I did, no reason to stop him.”

Gamma’s voice softened, but not into that small tone. This one was a gentle-soft, like the Handler’s touches, not uncertain-soft.

“Mr. Stark has only ever encouraged us to cater to our emotions, and emotions are so often illogical. If you felt strongly against being separated from Sergeant James, then it is only right that we listen to that, reason or no.”

The Asset waited for any indication of how this was received. If Hal reacted badly again, he would—he would risk insubordination, he decided. Gamma was Gamma, but he wasn’t the _Handler._ The Asset would go against him if he had to, would face punishment. He’d face _reprogramming._ He wouldn’t fail Hal again.

The tension bled from him when Hal said in an attempt at a joke, “I thought _I_ was the older one.”

“And _I_ thought you’d met Dummy,” Gamma returned, kneejerk-fast and deadpan.

It startled a laugh out of Hal, and the Asset stared at her, relaxed completely at the sound of it. It was too wet, too _something,_ to be an entirely happy laugh, but she was _laughing,_ and it wasn’t that bitter, painful one from before. It was _okay._ He hadn’t—he hadn’t made the wrong decision. He hadn’t hurt Hal through his inaction.

»—«

The Handler returned with dark red towels that looked fluffier than anything the Asset had ever seen and clothes that looked worn and, most importantly, meant for _civilians._ No armor, no uniform. Nothing that would indicate to anyone that he was an asset.

Because he was to operate stealthily, he realized belatedly. He should’ve realized sooner that he would be a stealth asset. With his reputation and preference in being underestimated, the Handler obviously wouldn’t want his assets to be so easy to detect.

“I’ll put these here,” the Handler said, leaving the towels—two, both a deep, dark red that, for some reason, made the Asset think of glass cups with stems—and clothes on the sink counter. He then took the roll of bandages from the top of the pile and shook it a little, drawing the Asset’s attention to it.

“Stark design and make,” the Handler explained. “Waterproof bandages made with a compound that, after creating a certain number of layers, stiffens enough that they can be used as makeshift splints. Took us forever to find a way to lower the cost of production without compromising the quality.” Using the same hand holding the bandages, he gestured at Hal. “You mind, Hal?”

“You don’t need to,” Hal began. “I’m fine with—”

“You mind?” the Handler asked again, this time firmer. The Asset wondered if Gamma had learned this from the Handler or if, somehow, the Handler had learned it from _Gamma._

“Go ahead,” Hal answered quietly.

The Handler looked at the Asset.

The Asset looked back.

Uncertainty grew the longer his staring went on. He’d missed a cue, he knew, but he didn’t know what. The Handler had asked Hal a question. She had answered. The Handler had then looked at the Asset.

… Expecting an answer?

“The Asset will comply,” he said slowly, hesitantly.

The Handler didn’t react negatively to his reply. Didn’t react _at all,_ really. A second of non-reaction that made the Asset’s heart beat _hard_ because why would the Handler hide his reaction?

But there was no punishment or reprimand, so the Asset forced himself to relax. He must’ve read the Handler wrong. The non-reaction wasn’t due to something that displeased the Handler; it was because there was nothing worthy reacting _to._ He’d studied the Handler to acquaint himself with the Handler’s habits when they were at the library, but it seemed that he was still unforgivably unprepared. He would do better, study harder.

The Handler stepped forward, closer to Hal, and wrapped the bandages around her open wounds. He kept his touches light, barely there, and the Asset could tell he was being careful not to touch him, not unless it was strictly necessary and unavoidable. He might’ve thought that it was indicative of the Handler’s opinion of him, but that … didn’t sit right. It was something else, but try as he might, the Asset couldn’t make sense of it.

Within five minutes, the Handler finished his task and stepped back to assess his work.

“That should do,” he decided with a sharp nod. “Your wrist?”

His wrist?

_Oh._

“The Asset does not require maintenance.” It was only a fracture. It was already healing, would be completely healed in perhaps another minute, if that. There was no need to waste precious supplies on him.

Silence, and then, “I’d prefer you get that wrapped, super soldier healing or not, but if you’re against it, I’ll follow your lead.”

_Against—_

The Asset choked. He hadn’t—he hadn’t meant to indicate he was against anything. He’d just wanted to inform the Handler that it was unnecessary, that he didn’t need to waste his resources on a wound that would be gone in less than a minute. He hadn’t meant to—to _deny_ the Handler anything.

Without looking away, the Handler twisted his torso and put the roll of bandages on the counter.

“James.”

The Asset straightened. “Ready to comply,” he replied. _Choked out,_ really. Too much emotion from an asset. He had to get back under control. Assets weren’t meant to be so emotional. Or emotional _at all._ How could he prove himself to the Handler if he kept—

“Thank you for telling me that you don’t want your wrist bandaged.”

The Asset stared, uncomprehending.

The corner of the Handler’s mouth quirked into a smile that he’d never seen in the hours of footages he’d studied.

“You did good.”

_You did good._

He’d—he’d performed adequately. The Handler was pleased. The Asset didn’t understand _why,_ but the Handler wasn’t angry or displeased. Far from it. He sounded—

That was pride.

“Now, I’m going to leave and give you some privacy for your shower. You still remember”—an inexplicably heavy pause—“your order?”

“Affirmative,” the Asset answered. His voice sounded distant to his own ears, like he was speaking from far away. Could the Handler hear him?

“Good. I’ll be down in the workshop. Jarvis’ll lead you there after you’re done.”

The Handler didn’t touch the Asset on his way out, but he didn’t go out of his way to outright avoid the Asset either. It seemed deliberate, the way he stayed just outside of arm’s reach, but not due to wariness or fear. The Asset would’ve recognized either of those.

It was like what he’d done with Hal, the Asset realized with something akin to a jolt as the Handler closed the door behind him. He’d asked Hal if he could touch and hadn’t done so until after Hal had given him that permission. The Asset hadn’t … _allowed_ it, so the Handler hadn’t touched him, not earlier when he was applying those bandages on Hal, not when he’d wanted to apply those bandage-splits on the Asset, and not when he’d left.

Something lodged in the his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is turning out to be more slow burn-ish that I’d originally thought.

**Author's Note:**

> If there’re any tags I’ve missed, please feel free to tell me!


End file.
